


I'm Your Venus

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crack, F/M, First Time, Gender or Sex Swap, Light Dom/sub, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Smut, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara hadn't even been that enthusiastic about the prospect of going to Space Glasgow to start with, but the Doctor had tried to make amends, and she'd eventually accepted his offer of a restorative cup of tea in good faith. It was all going swimmingly, in fact, until she woke up the next morning with a sense of confusion, an all-over ache, and the fact that... she's a man. Disconcerted but curious, when the Doctor turns up with a similar sex-change conundrum, new hormones kick in and truths are outed as limits are pushed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Your Venus

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a silly, silly idea I had one evening, and kind of grew from there. I've read some body-swap fics, but nothing like this, so... here goes nothing.

Clara awoke in the comfortable surroundings of her flat as her alarm blared at her, mechanically, from her bedside table, loudly insisting that she get up for work, despite the fact that – by her calculations – she’d only been asleep for four hours, following the Doctor’s navigational cock-up on their way from Space Glasgow. He’d turned up in her lounge the previous night, lured her into the TARDIS with the promise of puppies with no noses, and then dragged her around what was – at least in her opinion – a city identical to Earth Glasgow, only with a green sky.

There had not, she noted grouchily for the millionth time, even been any puppies. She was deeply irritated that he had lied to her to secure her companionship, and she was unsure of whether to be flattered or annoyed by this development. She contemplated this issue hazily as she leant over and slapped the alarm clock’s snooze button, groaning slightly and pulling the pillow over her face, wondering how long she could remain in bed before having to get up and prepare for the day ahead. She made a mental list of her pre-work tasks: _shower, breakfast, makeup, get dressed, text the Doctor and tell him he’s a prat._

As she lay there, caught somewhere pleasant between sleep and wakefulness, she became suddenly aware of a dull, throbbing ache that had settled over her body, and she sat up slowly, flexing her muscles and stretching experimentally, wondering why that failed to allay her discomfort. By their standards, Space Glasgow had been quiet – little running, no fighting, and certainly none of the usual falling over – so she wondered as to the source of the ache, attributing it, perhaps, to fatigue. She made a mental note to ask the Doctor, as she sighed in frustration, stretching her hands out in front of her in the gloom of her bedroom – and it was then that she screamed, the sound issuing from her throat sounding oddly strangled and unlike her. 

Her hands, which the evening before had been small and delicate, each finger tipped with a neatly-painted turquoise nail, were now inexplicably broad and calloused, the nails still brightly coloured but wide and short. Clara turned them over shakily, holding her breath as she flicked on her bedside light to examine them more closely, before lifting them to her face and running her fingertips over her cheeks, noting with a lurch of shock that her cheeks felt more sunken in, her jaw jutted forwards more, and there, across her chin, was the rough, sandpapery feel of stubble. She had felt it before, on past boyfriends and lovers, but it was a new experience to find it on her own face, and she fought to keep her breathing even as she appraised the situation.

“Oh, fuck…” she muttered, her voice coming out two octaves lower than she was used to, and a small part of her was irrationally pleased that she would be able to take the day off work, even if she had to come to terms with, well… this. Whatever _this_ was. Apparently being a man, although she wasn’t sure the extent to which this appraisal could be held true. It was then that a thought struck her, her eyes widening as she slid one hand under the duvet, slipping it inside her pyjama shorts to find… oh god, she couldn’t even think the word. She didn’t _want_ to think the word: thinking the word would make this weirdness real, and she was still mostly hoping that this was just a really, really weird dream induced by Space Glasgow’s somewhat dodgy atmosphere. She fought to gather her senses a little, focusing on the problem of… it. _It_ was just there, flaccid and unapologetic, as though it had been there, attached to her groin, for the entirety of her life, and not just developed overnight in some freak… well, she wasn’t sure. Mutation, possibly. She wasn’t certain enough about anything to be able to fashion an explanation.

Taking a deep breath, she swung her legs out of bed, noting the dark hair that covered them with a weary sense of resignation, before standing up uncertainly, noting with a stab of annoyance that despite the stubble and the hair and the voice, she was not – to her consternation – any taller. _Balls. Oh god, I can’t even say that now I_ have _balls. Fuck that. Of course I’d become a short man._

Padding into the bathroom, she steeled herself before she looked into the mirror, but she still gasped, her brain struggling to process what she saw. Her eyes had not changed – they were still hazel, still round and expressive and in this instance, clouded with shock – but the eyebrows above them were overgrown in a way she found abjectly horrifying, and she scowled experimentally to judge the effect they had on her new face. Making a tentative duck face, she looked to the stubble which darkened her chin and cheeks, and she ran her hands over it lightly, examining this face critically before deeming it acceptable – _handsome, even,_ she thought to herself smugly – and turning her attention elsewhere. 

She peeled off her pyjama top and examined her torso in the mirror, feeling oddly light without the roundness of her breasts. She ran her hands over the flatness of her chest, the sensation unnerving her but pleasing her at the same time, and she slid her hands down further as she turned from side to side, noting, with a small flush of pride, her taut abdominal muscles and offering a silent, narcissistic prayer that she was – she hoped – good looking. Satisfied thus far with her discoveries, she took a fortifying breath and pushed down her shorts, closing her eyes and counting slowly to thirty before opening them once more and surveying the situation. 

 _Well,_ she thought to herself. _This could be much worse. Decent size. Seen uglier. Hair situation is less than ideal. Solid seven out of ten, Oswald._

This thought was followed, approximately ten seconds later, by the realisation that she needed to pee, which was in turn followed by several choice swear words, before her train of thought was interrupted by a loud and insistent knocking on her front door. _Oh, shit,_ she thought, stricken with panic as she was reminded of the situation at hand. _The neighbours can’t see this. The neighbours will freak the fuck out if they see this. Unless…_  

She pulled on her towel bathrobe and tied it tightly around her waist, stepping into the hall and approaching the front door cautiously, as though it were a bomb that may detonate at any moment. Yanking it open with a shaking hand, she took in the bizarre sight before her, the lie she had prepared dying on her lips as she did so. 

A middle-aged woman was stood on her doorstep, looking around with a degree of paranoia, dressed haphazardly in a leather skirt, too-big Converse with the laces untied, and a v-neck t-shirt with no bra. This last fact seemed to be of particular interest to Clara’s new anatomy, and she felt, with a surge of horror, the blood rushing to her crotch, and moved her hands to cover it in what she hoped was a suitably inconspicuous manner.

“Can I help you?” she asked, the lowness of her voice taking her by surprise again, and she blushed, before wondering how there was enough blood left in her face to do so when the majority of her circulatory system appeared to be directing itself, quite determinedly, to her crotch. 

The woman turned to look at her, her face framed by a mass of grey curls, the skin weathered and the eyes a piercing blue that seemed dimly familiar to Clara. “I’m ah…” the woman said uncertainly, the voice high and distinctly Scottish, and it was then that Clara understood, with crashing realisation, who this person was and fought back a grin. “I’m looking for Clara.” 

“Doctor…” she managed, relief flooding through her, and she forgot about the crotch situation and embraced him – it was too weird to think of him as _her_ – tightly, noticing as she did so her friend’s impressive new chest, and wondering idly whether there had been a degree of body swappage of any kind, before abruptly remembering the erection issue and pulling away with a discreet cough, leaning casually against the door frame. “Nice boobs.” 

“This is not _funny_ ,” the Doctor said, with what was intended to be a serious glare, as Clara retreated into her flat, the Time Lord trailing behind her in his mismatched clothes. “This is very much not funny.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Clara mused aloud, looking at her reflection in the lounge mirror and ruffling her newly-short hair. “I woke up with a dick. Could’ve been worse.”

“How could that have been worse?” the Doctor asked, raising her – oddly neat and lacking in aggression – eyebrows at Clara and affixing her with a scowl that was infinitely less frightening from this new, feminine face.

“Well. Come on, haven’t you always been curious?” Clara asked coyly, turning to face the Doctor and crossing her arms. “What it’d be like to be a woman? Now you know. Consider it a science experiment in physiology.” 

“Curious, yes. Curious enough to try it? No. This is deeply un-fun, Clara, not least because the TARDIS was _very_ amused this morning. These were the only clothes she’d allow me to find,” he said glumly, sinking into a chair and idly watching his breasts jiggle as he did so. “She thought it was _really funny._ How do you deal with the… boob thing?” 

“Bras,” Clara explained absentmindedly, trying her utmost not to stare. “How do you deal with – no, never mind that actually. How the hell did this happen?” 

Unwilling to verbalise the situation, he reached for her hand, and she scowled at him warningly. “Just let me show you,” he said with irritation, grabbing her palm before she could protest any further. “This voice is grating on my eardrums.”

 

_They’d been wandering around Space Glasgow for two hours, two hours during which Clara had moaned, unrelentingly, about the lack of puppies with no noses. Despite the Doctor’s fondness for her, even he was forced to admit that the situation was becoming fairly dire, and that his temper was in danger of fraying._

_“You_ promised, _” she said accusatorily for the hundredth time since their arrival. “You dragged me here under false pretences…”_

 _“I did not_ drag _you,” he said firmly to her, hoping to put an end to her complaints. “I made a sort of vague assurance and you made up your own mind to accompany me. There was no coercion involved; it is not my fault.”_

_“So you lied?” she challenged, narrowing her eyes at him threateningly._

_“Lied is a very strong word, Clara. I did not lie. I made a…”_

_“Made a….?”_

_“Expressed a factual inconsistency.”_

_“Why can’t you just admit you cocked up?” she asked with an exasperated eye roll, stalking away from him a little way, before realising that wandering off would only culminate in her becoming hopelessly lost. “You’re an absolute prat.”_

_“Thanks,” he said drily, resolving in that instant to shut her up definitively by engaging in a behaviour she would find so surprising that she couldn’t possibly complain. “Ooh, look! A tea stall. Let’s have tea. Apology tea.”_

_“They have tea here?” Clara asked suspiciously, and he raised his eyebrows at her as though it was the most obvious thing in the world that they had tea in Space Glasgow, thirty light years away from its namesake city on Earth._

_“Of course. It’s specially blended, all sorts of different types. Healing tea, love tea, calming tea. It has to be experienced to be believed. Now. You stay here, I’ll buy, OK?”_

_“You’ll buy?” she asked, looking him up and down warily as she wondered what his ulterior motives could be. “You never buy. You don’t carry money.”_

_“Well, I’m buying now,” he snapped at her, feeling immediately guilty but deciding to make it up to her with the provision of tea, and potentially biscuits. “Now, stay.”_

_He crossed the street to the vendor and smiled at him in what he hoped was a friendly manner, trying his best to emulate one of Clara’s warm smiles._

_“She’s a bossy one,” the vendor noted, with an unreadable expression that may have been somewhere on the scale between ‘aroused’ and ‘exasperated.’ “Strong woman, mate. Shouldn’t let yourself get pushed around so much.”_

_“Yes, women generally are rather strong,” the Doctor observed dully. “It comes with the territory of reproduction. She keeps me in line mostly, but the bossiness is an ongoing source of friction, rest assured.”_

_“I’ve got a tea that could help you with that, pal,” the vendor proposed, a wicked smile on his face. “Put you right back in charge.”_

_“Oh, please,” the Doctor scoffed, dismissing the foolish idea. “That’ll never happen. She’s a talker, and a control freak. Her ceding control is about as likely as… well. About as likely as hell freezing over.”_

_The vendor offered a sympathetic smile, ladling a clear, amber liquid into two cups and holding them out to the Doctor. “Well, as you say… women so often are those things. This should sort you both out. Change the dynamic a little. Enjoy it while you can – should shake things up a little.”_

_“How?” the Doctor asked, sniffing the cups apprehensively but finding only an aroma of honey._

_“Now that would be telling, my friend. Just enjoy it while it lasts, try to seize the opportunity. The tea’s on the house,” the vendor said with a grin. “Free of charge. My compliments.”_

“Hang on,” Clara interrupted, back in her lounge. “So, did he sell you… gender-bending tea?” 

“It’s… it’s a possibility, yes,” the Doctor admitted, looking down at his lap in embarrassment, the tips of his ears turning pink. “He interpreted women as being dominant, so to give me dominance… he kind of… yeah.” 

“Oh, dear god,” Clara muttered, trying to grasp the situation at hand. “I am going to bloody kill you. You turn up here, lie, take me to Space Glasgow and _ruin my actual life._ ” 

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” the Doctor scolded, giving her a pitying look. “Not your _life_. Just a couple of days. Then you’ll be back to normal. Probably.”

“ _Probably_?” Clara shouted, the force and volume of her new voice taking her by surprise. “You mean I might be stuck as a bloke forever?”

“Urm,” the Doctor said worriedly, biting at the corner of an immaculately manicured nail. “Maybe. You just said it could be worse! Try to be objective here. You’re the control freak, make a list: pros and cons.” 

“Oh, dear god,” Clara groaned, sinking onto the sofa and putting her head in her hands, running them through her cropped hair and trying to collect her thoughts. “Right: pro, I’m good looking.” 

“Con: I’m not,” the Doctor interjected, making a distasteful face at Clara. “Pro: I haven’t shrunk.” 

“Con: I haven’t grown, and thus remain the shortest man from Blackpool… _ever_ ,” Clara scowled at him. “Pro: I have a dick.” 

“How is that a pro?” the Doctor grumbled incredulously. “You are _so_ weird, what’s to enjoy about having an extra appendage?”

“Oh, come on,” Clara said with a wicked grin. “I always fancied being a bloke for the day! We used to talk about it at uni sometimes: what we’d do… anyway, don’t lie. Like you’re not looking forward to experimenting with your new… downstairs region.”

“I’m not looking forward to experimenting with my new genitalia,” the Doctor clarified explicitly. “They’re weird. Also, genitals aside, the boobs get in the way. How do you _do_ anything?” 

“How do you pee?” Clara asked, suddenly remembering the concern of minutes earlier and figuring the Doctor was a safer bet to ask than, well, her dad. “I mean, seriously?”

The Doctor turned a violent shade of maroon, all the way from his newly curved jawline to the roots of his flowing silver hair. “Well… urm… you kind of… urm… sort of… point and think.” 

“Seriously?” Clara complained, standing up and putting her hands on her hips, which had the unfortunate side effect of allowing her dressing gown to fall open to the waist, revealing her abs to the Doctor, who swallowed uncomfortably. “Two thousand years with a penis, and _that’s_ your idea of an instruction manual? Fat lot of good you are.” 

“Well, urm… yeah,” the Doctor blinked up at her crossly, his expression owl-like despite his new, much softer face. “I don’t know! I’ve never thought about it, it’s not a sort of… conscious thing, it just… happens.” 

“What about… you know,” she took in his blank look and realised she was going to have to be somewhat more explicit. As she considered her phrasing, she felt an irrational, unanticipated surge of lust, and some deep-rooted part of her new brain awoke, realising she could potentially turn this conversation around to her advantage. “The _other_ thing?” 

“What other thing?” 

“The whole ‘every millilitre of blood in my body keeps rushing to my crotch’ thing. _That_ thing.” 

“Oh,” he turned, if it was at all possible, an even deeper shade of red and looked back to his lap, now determinedly shredding his nails to avoid eye contact. “Just ignore it and it goes away. Not that hard.”

“ _Hard_ was not a good choice of adjective,” Clara complained, grinning at him slightly in an endearing fashion, before frowning slightly and opting instead for what she sincerely hoped was a playful, non-creepy look. “Seriously? You just ignore them? You’ve never had a sneaky-”

“ _Clara,_ ” he interrupted, looking at her with a pained expression that suggested he would deeply enjoy a topic shift, as inwardly he battled with his emotions and whether or not to make a sordid confession. “I refuse to answer that.”

“Aww, c’mon,” she teased him. “You can tell me. It’s strictly between you, me, my new penis and your spectacular boobs. Also your...” 

“ _Clara_ ,” the Doctor repeated weakly, trying hard to keep his thoughts under control. “Are you really asking me if I…”

“Yep,” Clara took an apprehensive two steps across the room towards the Doctor, deciding to take control of the situation. “So, confess. Sharpish.” 

“Why?” he asked, licking his lips nervously, desperately trying to maintain a modicum of self-control as he looked up at her, wondering if the tea vendor could have foreseen the tea’s total failure to reverse their power dynamic. “Is it important?” 

“Yes,” Clara said in what she hoped equated to an imploring tone, despite the gruffness of her new voice. “Because I want you to be thinking about it.” 

“Why-” he managed, before she was beside him and her lips crashed into his own and oh gods, she was kissing him, _she was kissing him_ and this was nothing like he’d ever imagined it to be, alone in the TARDIS, thinking about her lips and her pout and… 

“So you do have sneaky wanks…” she interrupted with a smirk, pleased by her discovery. “While thinking about me.” 

“No fair,” he protested, glaring at her as he realised that his thoughts were being invaded against his will. “You abused the telepathy thing. I wasn’t rea-” 

She kissed him again, biting down on his lip and wondering, idly, why she wasn’t as weirded out by this entire business as she could be, why kissing him like this felt natural, no matter the current situation. She was enjoying the power afforded to her, that much was certain, but somehow kissing the Doctor, even as a woman, wasn’t an overly unpleasant experience, and she felt her lust beginning to deepen and grow, wondering idly whether she should resist it. 

“Clara, you’re enjoying this because of the bisexuality thing,” the Doctor offered, pulling away slightly to catch his breath as he tried to form a more coherent sentence. “I would say, as an educated guess. Resistance would be excellent, thanks.” 

“Hey!” she protested with a small scowl, stung by the rejection. “I told you that in confidence. No using it against me. Or accosting my thoughts.”

“You did it first. And speaking of _against me_ ,” he muttered. “If you’ve quite finished accosting me to steal self-pleasure tips, could you possibly remove your… _that_ from my vicinity?” 

“Like you aren’t curious…” Clara teased him, kissing the tip of his nose and then his jaw languidly, seductively, determined to wear down his willpower. “Come on, admit it…”

He pulled a face that Clara didn’t recognise, the combination of the new face and the unknown topic rendering her wholly uncertain of her friend’s reactions. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But you did say something about peeing. And I do need some pre-curiosity preparation time.”

“You mean…”

“That came out wrong.”

“That won’t be the only thing coming.” Clara smirked, and the Doctor groaned, putting his hands over his eyes to avoid having to look at her. 

“God save me, you and testosterone… that’s the lust thing, Clara. It’s not actually _you_ talking, it’s not _you_ wanting me, it’s the hormones…” he ran his fingers through his hair, and then paused as they caught at a knot, focusing his attention there rather than on Clara. “This entire thing is farcical.”

“What if I _do_ want you?” she asked. “What if I always h-” 

“Peeing,” he interrupted, worried that if he allowed the conversation to escalate then uncomfortable truths would emerge on both sides. “Pee now, talk later.”

“Oh, shut up,” Clara chided, getting up and returning to the bathroom, before narrowing her eyes at the toilet as she bolted the door. “Right. I can do this.” 

“Talking to the toilet is the first sign of madness.” came the Doctor’s voice through the wood, and she scowled in the general direction of his words. 

“That’s not helpful,” she pointed out, lifting the seat and casting off her dressing gown. It was then that she realised, perhaps, that she might have a small issue. “Urm, Doctor?” 

“You said to shut up,” he pointed out to her politely. “So I am.” 

“Un-shut up,” she said through gritted teeth. “How do you pee… you know…”

“Given your current state?” even though she couldn’t see him, she knew he’d be smirking, and the thought irked her. “Carefully.” 

“Thank you for the wonderfully helpful advice,” she snarled, putting one hand on her length apprehensively and attempting to point it in vaguely the right direction. “Thanks a lot.” 

“Talking isn’t helping,” the Doctor advised her condescendingly. “Just relax and…”

“SHUT UP AGAIN,” Clara shouted, closing her eyes as she finally managed to start peeing. When she was done, she looked down nervously, noting the minimal splashback with a small sense of smugness. “OK, un-shut up again. Managed it.” 

“What do you want, a medal?” 

“A handjob?” the words slipped out unbidden, and Clara felt herself blush as she flushed the toilet and put her dressing gown back on, sensing that perhaps she may have overstepped a mark with her teasing. She wondered how her hormones had managed to gain control of her vocal chords, but made a mental note not to let it happen again. 

“A what job?”

“Don’t pretend to be innocent,” she said as casually as she could manage, as she strode back into the lounge and plonked herself down on the Doctor’s lap determinedly. “Besides, I was kidding.” 

“You weigh more,” he grumbled, then pulled an agonised face as she leant against his chest. “Ow. Very much ow. Don’t touch… there.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, rearranging herself so that her head was on his shoulder, the tips of her spiky hair brushing his chin. “And sorry about the whole… kissing thing, I got a bit… carried away.”

“ _You_ might be sorry, but the hormones aren’t,” the Doctor said immediately, peering down at her somewhat nervously. “You’re lustful. It’s the new hormones in your system, they’re driving you onwards to seek what they think you need...” 

“Why aren’t _you_ lustful?” Clara asked with annoyance, cutting him off. “If you say ‘super Time Lord biology,’ I will smack you. You’ve already slightly admitted to wanking – albeit under slight coercion – so don’t try to lie to me.”

“I’ve had two thousand years of practicing hiding my lust,” the Doctor explained, dipping a kiss to Clara’s hair and then making a face. “Not liking this haircut. Gets up my nose.”

“ _You_ get up my nose,” Clara grumbled, before understanding that he was registering a legitimate complaint. “Oh, _literally_. My bad. If it’s any consolation, I woke up like this, I didn’t opt for this haircut. Guessing you didn’t choose yours either.” 

“Nope,” he concurred, grinning at her slightly, tapping the tip of her nose as he worked up the courage to ask her a nagging question. “So, are you going to use those tips you stole from me, or just be a walking, talking, raging ball of hormones for the next day or so?” 

“You do know that I didn’t technically _need_ to steal them, right?” Clara confessed to him reticently, eyeing him warily. “I’ve given enough handjobs in my time to know what men like. I was mostly just nosy about what you do in your free time. And whether you think about me or not.”

“You, Clara Oswald, are a pain in the arse,” the Doctor decided after a moment, but his protests were without conviction. “A complete and utter pain in the arse.” 

“And here I was thinking I was a pain in the tits,” Clara deadpanned. “My mistake. I could pain your arse if you preferred?” 

“I think I’m alright,” the Doctor assured her, falling silent for a moment as her thoughts spilled over into his mind’s eye once more. “Could you please keep your thoughts to yourself? The… spanking thing is… no. Not me.” 

“Sorry,” Clara apologised, with the kind of smirk that suggested she really wasn’t all _that_ sorry. “Just…” 

“Oh _hell_ ,” he muttered under his breath, already anticipating what she was about to say. “Oh, Rassilon save me.” 

“Shut up! Look, I’m… lustful, you’re lustful – don’t even deny it – so don’t you think… maybe we should…” she looked up at him and raised one eyebrow. “It’s solving a problem.”

“Clara…”

“It _is_ ,” she reiterated, wondering whether pouting would have the same impact in this new body and deciding against it. “We’re both mature, responsible adults, come on…”

“You want…” the Doctor said simply, understanding her well enough to know what she wanted and why she wanted it. “To take control over me.”

“That might be a small part of it,” she confessed unwillingly, looking up at him and biting her lip seductively. “Please. How often can you say you get to do this?”

“Have sex with you?”

“Have sex _as the opposite gender._ ” She paused for a moment, flattered by his words, and then added: “Also have sex with you, yeah.”

“Is this a weird fetish thing, or-” his words were cut off as she kissed him more intensely, slipping her tongue into his mouth as she did so, one of her hands sliding under his t-shirt and coming to rest on his hip as she traced patterns onto his skin with her fingertips. She needed him to understand that this wasn’t just the hormones, this wasn’t just a new idea, it was something serious that she had considered. Although, admittedly, the lust thing was playing a loud, insistent role in the development of said idea.

“No,” she said breathlessly after a moment to collect her thoughts, moving to straddle his lap in a more pleasingly dominant manner and beginning to grind against him slowly. “This is a thing I’ve wondered about for a while, and now I get to maybe shag you _and_ be in control, so please… just indulge me this once…”

“Clara,” he pleaded softly, both surprised and elated by her confession as he considered the ramifications of it. He wanted this – of course he wanted this, he had wanted this since the day they had first met, with him in his younger body – but for now he was unwilling to cross that boundary when she was so vulnerable. Or so he told himself. There was also a large, vain part of him that was concerned with what he diplomatically termed _performance issues._ “I will do anything you want, inclusive of _that_ , when we are back to normal. Just… not like this. Please.”

“Why?” she asked, finding herself pouting and trying to change her expression to one that was more neutral as she silently implored him to cede to her wishes, glaring slightly as he remained impassive.

“Clara,” he said as tenderly as he could in his new body, looking down at her and marvelling that she would ever, ever want to sleep with him, in this beaten-up old body that seemed far too ungainly for someone as flawless as her to desire. “There are millions of things about you I adore, and many, many of them relate to you being _you._ You being normal, girly you.”

“Like?”

“The way you smile. The way the sunlight catches your hair when we visit somewhere new. Your eyes when you’re happy, and they’ll all lit up. Your…” he sighed and turned slightly pink as he said the words: “Look, you have a nice… chest. And legs. And bum. And just in general, you’re very nice. Much niceness. I would like to have sex with you if you would like to have sex with me, but can I please stop talking now, Miss Oswald?”

“Only if you make me a promise. A sex promise. Inclusive of a sub-category detailing my right to control you.”

He rolled his eyes at her, inwardly jubilant at the prospect of having sex with her after what felt like an eternity of testing his own self-control and denying the fact that she was, in fact, a very attractive woman. If she wanted control, she could have control – or indeed anything that made her happy – with no questions asked, partly to please her and partly because he wanted her so intently that he would consent to almost anything, as long as it was with her. “Fine. I promise. As long as this doesn’t feature any handcuffs. Or ropes.” 

“I guarantee it,” she assured him, with a smirk that said she didn’t. “Mostly.”

He groaned half-heartedly, looking down at her with apprehension and wondering idly whether she would change her mind once he was back to his usual stick-insect self. “Humans are weird,” he grumbled to her. “All of you. Weird.” 

“Well, you know what they say, anyway: men are from Mars; women are from Venus. So maybe it’s not _humans_ who are the problem. Maybe it’s space and time…” Clara said playfully, grinning up at him as she teased him.

“Damn space and time, causing problems for you…” he protested for her amusement, as her arms wrapped around his waist, anchoring herself to him more tightly.

“Complaints?” she asked him softly.

“Absolutely none.”

 

~/~/~/~

 

The next forty-eight hours were spent ensconced in Clara’s flat, safe from the prying eyes of neighbours and friends. Clara found the Doctor an old sports bra to stop him complaining about jigglage – and also partly to try to prevent any more awkward situations – and in return he hunted through the TARDIS until he found her an appropriate pair of underpants that she deemed acceptable enough to wear, even though she complained about the question mark print. 

Although she ran him a warm bath to soothe his aching chest, he moaned constantly about the pain they gave him, until she assured him, in a no-nonsense tone, that she had suffered the same fate once a month for the past fourteen years, and you didn’t hear _her_ whinging about it, no thank _you._ There’d been an ensuing conversation about menstruation, with the Doctor asking nervous, strangled questions about the actuality of the situation, until Clara had mentioned clots and he’d passed out on her sofa in a dead faint. She wouldn’t be letting him live _that_ down ever again.

Clara persuaded him to phone in sick for her, unwilling and unable to explain the matter to her colleagues or her students, and thus their time was spent together in her lounge, the Doctor complaining loudly about Netflix’s 2016 offerings, his new voice and his unruly mop of hair, until Clara forced him to sit at her feet one morning and brushed the knots from it tenderly until it shone like starlight. She became the master of styling her own hair, taking careful selfies to document each look, because as weird as this entire thing was, she was determined to remember it. The Doctor declined to be in her photos, too gangly and self-conscious to contemplate recording his experiences on film, but Clara had pressganged him into a couple, arguing that it was not every day that one got to change gender without regenerating completely, and so he had capitulated to her demands while grumble almightily.

From time to time, he would pretend to ignore the quiet, half-muffled moaning from her bedroom, and she would reciprocate the favour as he locked himself in the bathroom, until finally they found themselves, one evening, mostly undressed on her sofa, making out like teenagers, until Clara rolled a little too far over and found herself unceremoniously tumbling onto the rug, the Doctor laughing and breathless above her. She pulled him down to join her, and it was there that they fell asleep, hands entwined, her stubbly cheek pressed against his bare shoulder, and it was there that they found themselves the next morning, her half-naked, her breasts just barely covered by her restored hair, him shucking off the now-redundant sports bra with a sigh of relief. She’d blushed as he kissed her with surprising tenderness, their feelings and their bodies equally exposed.

“You’re you,” she said with contentment, reaching up to cup his cheek with a small, soft hand, smirking slightly as she did so. “And you have a promise to keep.” 

“You’re you,” he repeated with a grin. “The question is only; here, or bedroom?”

 

~/~/~/~

 

Hours later, Clara beamed up at the Doctor jubilantly from her side of the bed, leaning up to kiss his cheek tenderly. “See, daft old man? No ropes. No handcuffs.”

“You know, calling me ‘daft old man’ after we have sex makes me feel like a cradle snatcher,” the Doctor complained amiably, stroking Clara’s back gently. “Although, you know, if that floats your boat…”

“Shut up,” she murmured, tucking her hair behind her ears and trailing one hand slowly up his chest, coming to rest with her palm against his lightly stubbly cheek. “I think I prefer you when you’re _this_ you. Even though the boobs were pretty spectacular.”

“ _Your_ boobs are pretty great-er,” he complimented her, turning a delicate shade of pink as he did so, and Clara laughed, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck and inhaling his familiar smell. “But I do think next time you should let me take the lead. I’m two thousand years old, I do know something about sex.”

“And that something would be?” Clara asked him mischievously, gasping as he rolled her onto her back and pressed a feather-light kiss to her sternum.

“Well, if I told you… it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” he teased, kissing lower and lower, stopping maddeningly short of where Clara wanted him to be. “You’ll find out next time, my Clara.” 

“ _Your_ Clara?” she asked him breathlessly, arching her hips a little to try and encourage him to keep kissing southwards. “I think I like that. I think I like that a _lot_. But right now, what I’d like even more is another shag. Please thank you Mr Time Lord.” 

“Well then,” he acknowledged, with a self-satisfied smirk. “If I agree to that, do you promise to never complain about Space Glasgow again?” 

“I promise,” she concurred softly, moaning a little as his lips trailed down her stomach promisingly. “I prom- _oh._ ”

“Well then,” he whispered. “I think, in that case, another shag is definitely on the cards. My woman from Venus.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're interested, the wonderful thatTVfanlady1495 has drawn [this](http://thattvfanlady.tumblr.com/post/143738071099/fan-art-inspired-by-universe-on-her-shoulders-s) incredible piece of art of gender swapped Twelve and Clara!


End file.
